And the children are pulling In a thousand valleys far and wide -But there's a tree, of many, one, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; Not in entire forgetfulness And not in utter nakedness But trailing clouds of glory do we come Heaven lies about us in our infancy! But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his humorous stage Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight O joy that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things. Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, LIBR UNIVERSA High instincts, before which our mortal/nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized: Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, CALIFOR Uphold us--cherish—and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither- X Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts today What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret The clouds that gather round the setting sun CCLXXXVIII Music, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, P. B. Shelley End of the Golden Treasury |